Person or Persons Unknown (12 page)

“Of course, it was dark there in the alley. The moon was near down by the time I arrived to look. And it’s been established I was in a drunken state …”

“Yes, man, out with it.”

“Nevertheless, I believe her to be one Priscilla Tarkin who lives in our court in Half Moon Street.”

“Oh, Tad,” wailed his wife. “Polly? Say it is not so.”

He could offer her little hope, for in spite of his reservations, having now spoken, he seemed quite sure.

“And why did you not come forward with this at the time?”

“I would have,” said he, “but I fear that when I tripped and fell, my mind went completely blank. I can recall nothing of that period afterwards.”

“Well and good,” said Sir John. “I must, however, ask you to remain, for the law requires a more formal identification than you have just made.”

Mrs. Millhouse insisted on accompanying us to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery on Tavistock Street. As I led the way, for I was the only one of our company who knew its exact location, she had poured out to Sir John all she knew of poor Polly Tarkin. Though I had no way of knowing, the story she told was one characteristic of many older women forced into prostitution — a husband who died leaving her in debt, a son who had disappeared into the American colonies, desperation, no way of earning her keep except by selling herself. She was neither young nor pretty, and so she frequently went hungry. The Millhouse family had often shared their little with her. By way of repayment, she would care for Edward when Mrs. Millhouse left on errands about the town.

“Had she no trade? no craft? no means of employment?” asked Sir John.

“She said not,” said Mrs. Millhouse. “The poor woman felt only shame for what she did. We had not the heart to turn our backs on her.”

Through it all, Thaddeus Millhouse had listened to his wife’s dreary tale as it was told across streets and down lanes. At the end of it, he commented only thus: “What she did or did not do is all the same now. We all feel shame before God.” He said it queerly, and in such a way that ended the discussion. Only young Edward Millhouse, who looked to be some months shy of a year in age, had much to say after that. He began carrying on rather fretfully, and by the time we reached the entrance to Mr. Donnelly’s building, he was in full cry.

“Teething,” explained his mother, as she bounced the babe in her arms.

Whatever it was that vexed Edward served to announce us to Mr. Donnelly, for by the time we reached his door, the surgeon had it open, so eager was he to welcome patients to his new office.

“Ah, it is you, Sir John.” To his credit he seemed not the least disappointed. “Come in, come in, all of you.”

Sir John introduced the visitors and explained the nature of our visit. I noticed Mr. Donnelly cast a dubious glance at Mrs. Millhouse.

“I’m afraid, madam, I cannot allow you to view the body.”

“But why?” said she. “I knew her best.”

“You might not know her at all as she is now.” He went to the door to the next room. “Give me but a moment, and I shall prepare the corpus for viewing, Mr. Millhouse.”

When Mr. Donnelly called out to come ahead. Sir John signaled that I was to remain as he followed Thaddeus Mill-house through the door. Fumbling a bit, he managed to close it after him.

We waited — Lucinda Millhouse, Edward, and I — as voices muttered low from beyond. Mr. Donnelly’s was a humble surgery. There were but two rooms. This one provided him with living space and would also do for him as a place where patients might wait for his attention — if patients ever came. They might sit upon the couch where I sat, a couch which also served him as a bed. For minutes Mrs. Millhouse paced the floor with Edward, who continued his fussing. Then, of a sudden, she seated herself on one of the simple chairs which had been pulled away from the deal table in one comer of the room. She began dandling the young fellow on her knee.

“He is not always so,” said she to me in the nature of an apology. “Edward is usually the sweetest-tempered of lads. It’s his teeth coming in, you see. It distresses all babes.”

I assured her that his cries did certainly not distress me.

“It will be good for Tad — Mr. Millhouse, that is — to get away from our room in his new employment. It has been most difficult for him to work, day or night, with all of us cooped together.”

“No doubt,” said I in a sympathetic manner.

The door to the next room opened, and the subject of her concern swiftly emerged. His eyes were red, and though he had wiped them dry with the kerchief clutched in his hand, it was evident he had been weeping.

“Come, Lucy, let’s away,” said he.

Yet as she rose, Mr. Donnelly came out, a small container in his hand. “But a moment,” said he. “I have a salve here for the baby’s gums. Just rub the tiniest bit where the tooth is coming in, and it will give him relief.”

Mrs. Millhouse accepted it rather reluctantly. “What is in it?” she asked.

“It is a very mild mix of opium. Don’t worry. It was used often on babies in Lancashire with no bad result.”

“We … we cannot pay.”

“Take it with my good wishes. But remember — only the tiniest bit.”

“Thank you ever so much. I — ”

“L«o’/” Mr. Millhouse stood at the door to the hallway, hurrying their departure. “Please, let us be off.”

She nodded to us all and scurried after him, pulling the door shut with a loud bang. We listened to the descending footsteps. And only then did Sir John emerge from the examination room.

“Why did you do that?” Mr. Donnelly asked him. “There was really no need to display those horrible wounds in the abdomen. A look at her face would have done, surely.”

“I wanted to get a reaction from him,” said Sir John calmly.

“Well, you certainly got one! I thought for a moment I should have to apply some oil of turpentine to his nose in order to revive him. And dear God, the tears! Why, I thought he would ‘drown the stage with tears.’ “

“It was rather a surplus of reaction, wouldn’t you say so?”

“Well, he had spoken of her as one might speak of a family friend. Imagine living on such terms with a prostitute.”

“And the fellow does claim to be a poet.”

“Well, with a poet such a surfeit of emotion is always possible, even likely.”

“Nevertheless,” said Sir John, “it does make one curious. That is why I invited him to come in and talk to me tomorrow morning.”

“But you said you wanted only to discuss certain details of the victim’s life — friends, frequent visitors, and so on.”

“I would not put him on his guard, Mr. Donnelly. But enough of that, what have you to tell me of the wounds of Priscilla Tarkin?”

“Ah, the victim, of course. Well, I’ve written out a report, as you requested, for the record. Shall I read it to you?”

“No, tell it. That way I shall retain the essentials.”

“Oh, very well. Let me see now.” He paused but a moment to collect himself. “She was almost certainly attacked from the rear. There were bruises left and right on her cheeks, which I should say indicated that a large hand had been clamped over her mouth. A single cut wsis made across her throat from the left. Her gullet and windpipe had been severed right down to the spinal cord. Thus we have the cause of death. The mutilation of her abdomen and interior parts was done afterwards. That consisted of a cut made from sternum to pubic bone and lateral cuts made below the ribs and approximately two inches below the navel. They were deep, long, dragging cuts and did considerable damage to the organs beneath — stomach and intestines were badly lacerated. The skin of her abdomen had been flapped back, perhaps to get at her womb, which had been stabbed through — or perhaps merely out of curiosity at what lay beneath. The intestines had been displaced, perhaps again to get at the womb.”

“In other words, he knew where to look for that female organ,” put in Sir John, “and it was important to him to find it.”

“You might say so, yes.”

“This would then be consistent with your speculation with regard to the first victim that the assailant had some knowledge of anatomy.”

“Well … yes.” It was reluctant agreement at best. Then added the surgeon: “There are differences here, though, that make me a little less certain about that. The hacking and slashing nature of these wounds makes me think they were done swiftly and with a practiced hand. Also, their nature suggests to me that they were done in anger — an absolute rage.”

“And what about the size of the woman? I had not asked that earlier. I should have.”

“She was not small, about nine stone, I should say. Nothing like the Amazon he first took on. In any case, he had no trouble controlling her. For that matter, he had no trouble with either woman.”

“Indeed,” said Sir John, and grew thoughtful for a space. Then: “May I ask a very basic question?”

“Of course. Sir John. They are often the most important.”

“Would it be possible to inflict the wounds you have described without spattering yourself with the victim’s blood?”

“The mutilation, perhaps, although it was done in haste — and whatever is done in haste is sure to be messy. But that long cut across the throat also severed both the major carotid artery and the major jugular vein. Blood would have gushed, perhaps spurted. His hand, wrist, and forearm would almost certainly have been spattered with blood.”

“Jeremy? Are you here?”

“Yes, of course. Sir John.”

“Have we overlooked the obvious? Was Mr. Millhouse’s coatsleeve or cuff bloodstained?”

I thought upon it but a moment. “No, sir,” said I, “and his coat was of such a color that it would show most plain.”

“I will second that,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“And what would you judge his size to be?”

Before either of us could answer, a sturdy rap came upon the door. Mr. Donnelly looked at me and shrugged, then stepped over and threw open the door. There stood Dr. Amos Carr, the former Army surgeon who had upon occasion and in Mr. Donnelly’s absence, served Sir John and the Bow Street Runners. It was he who had amputated Mr. Perkins’s arm when Mr. Perkins thought it might be saved. Sir John did not hold him in high esteem.

“Well, Mr. Donnelly,” he boomed forth, “I had heard you were returned to London and set up your surgery here. Though we have met but twice or thrice previous, I thought to come by like a good colleague and give you a warm welcome.”

For a moment or more, Mr. Donnelly was quite struck dumb. But he recovered himself and bade his visitor enter.

“Ah, Sir John!” exclaimed Dr. Carr, spying us both. “Working again with Mr. Donnelly, are you? I had heard he gave you help on that nasty homicide behind New Broad Court.”

“And now there is a second,” said Mr. Donnelly.

I noted Sir John’s lips purse at that. I could tell he felt that Mr. Donnelly had spoken out of turn.

“You don’t mean it?” said the former army surgeon. “Who was it?”

“A prostitute, like the first,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“Ah, those poor women. I daresay they are the least safe of all on the street.”

“Unfortunately so,” agreed Sir John.

“You know,” said Dr. Carr, “when I heard of your service to Sir John, it was days after the event, and the victim was already underground, I’m sure. But if there is indeed a second victim, you may be able to put this bit of advice to work for you.”

“What advice have you, Dr. Carr?” said Sir John. “I am most eager to know.”

“Mr. Donnelly, I seem to recall that formerly your surgery was equipped with a — what do they call them? micro… ?”

“A microscope, sir.”

“Ah yes, most up-to-date and scientific you are. I trust that you still have it somewhere about?”

“Oh indeed I do. I find it aids me in a multitude of ways.”

“Now, what I tell you may sound a bit outlandish, but I assure you that it is proven fact. I myself have observed it after a fashion, as I shall explain.” With the attention of both men, he seemed to expand visibly, wishing to extend his lecture and thereby hold them even longer. He paused to build a sense of anticipation. At last he resumed: “Now, in several instances while in the Army I had the occasion to examine the eyes of the dead, and I can tell you that it is true that in their pupils you may see the last image imprinted upon the living eye. There was indeed something there! The difficulty is, of course, that it cannot be perceived even with a magnifying glass. I know that, for I tried on those several occasions with just such an instrument.

“But you, Mr. Donnelly, with your microscope, would fare much better. My advice is this: Simply remove the eyeballs of the second victim and place them in such a way that the pupils may be minutely examined. I know the power of those micro … uh … scopes. They are quite amazing. Once you have a clear picture of the pupil before you, increased many tens of times over, you will also have a picture of the murderer. Is that not quite logical?”

“Oh … very … I suppose,” stammered Mr. Donnelly.

“Would you like me to assist in the operation?”

“That will, unfortunately, not be possible,” said Sir John, “for Mr. Donnelly has concluded his examination, and the victim has been sent off to the Raker.”

“Perhaps the body could be returned,” suggested Dr. Carr.

“Why, perhaps it could! Come along, Jeremy, let us go and look into that possibility. Goodbye, all.”

And faster than we entered, we left that modest surgery. Sir John pulling me by the arm, and the deserted Mr. Donnelly staring after us unhappily. The magistrate said not a word until we reached the street, and even then he kept his voice to just above a whisper.

“Jeremy,” said he, “I always thought that man Carr was a fool, but I was wrong. I see now that he is quite mad.”

That evening, having returned with Constable Perkins from another of his exhausting lessons in self-defense, I happened to be about below when Sir John summoned the full complement of Bow Street Runners to his chambers. Curious as always, I trailed in among them. Though I had not been invited, I had not been told specifically to stay away. I chose for myself an inconspicuous spot in one comer. None in that group of red-vested worthies questioned my right to be present; none so much as looked at me askance. When all had come together, and Sir John had been so informed by Mr. Benjamin Bailey, he stood up before them and addressed them as follows:

“Gentlemen,” said he, “you have all been made aware by now of the two homicides perpetrated within our precinct during the last days. The unfortunate victims were both women of the streets. Our inquiries have so far yielded naught save a single name which I shall give to you presently. We have no proper motive. Each of the women was left with money, however little, on her person. The second, whose body was discovered last night by Constable Brede, was horribly mutilated. I can only speculate that the murderer, whoever he may be, took some perverse pleasure in the insult to her corpus.

“Now, there is little, perhaps, that can be done to prevent these attacks, for they are accomplished in secret and in dark places. Wliat can be done, however, is to make the probable victims of them aware of their danger. That for whatever vicious reason the murderer has made women his particular victims seems obvious. The nature of the mutilation of the second victim confirms it. I should hazard that prostitutes have been chosen because of their availabiUty and their willingness to accompany the murderer into dark comers. What you must do tonight and each night until this man be caught, is to warn these women, all of them you may come across — and that will of course be a great many — of the threat to them. If they have not heard that there has been a second victim, then inform them.

“And while you are about it, give them the name ‘Yos-sel,’ and ask them, do they know him, and have they seen him. This name was given me by four women, all of whom knew last night’s victim by sight and one of whom had seen him and the victim quarreling earlier last night. He was described by two as a ‘foreigner’ and by two others specifically as a ‘Jew’ — though he has no beard, and his garments are not such as a Jew might wear. All four agreed he is the sort who robs prostitutes of their earnings. That was likely the basis of his quarrel with the victim, whose name, by the bye, was Priscilla Tarkin, better known as Poll.’”

At this point. Sir John paused. Then said he: “It comes to me that at least some of you may know this fellow Yossel by reputation and by sight. Would you give me an ‘aye’ if you do?”

The men exchanged glances, as if seeking permission each from the other to speak out. As a result, the response was delayed somewhat but came as a resounding affirmative when at last it was heard.

“Ah!” said Sir John. “It appears Yossel is well known to most of you. Then by all means, bring him in if you see him. Detain him for questioning. In all truth, I cannot yet call him a suspect, yet his name was given me, and it is at present the only one that we have. He is said to go armed with a knife, so treat him with the proper degree of caution — though I doubt not that each of you is capable of handling him.”

Again he paused — but just long enough to offer a nod in dismissal. “That will be all, gentlemen,” said he. “I thank you for your time, and I do put my faith in you.”

With that, he resumed his seat behind his desk, folded his hands before him, and waited thus until we had all filed from his chambers. I ascended the stairs to our kitchen, secure in my belief that when next I came down again, the villainous Yossel would be apprehended, locked up in the strong room, and awaiting Sir John’s pleasure as to when and where to interrogate him.

Alas, however, it was not so. For when, next morning, I answered Sir John’s summons and returned, I found the strong room empty and Mr. Millhouse arrived, pacing up and down, looking left and right. He recognized me immediately and came to me forthwith.

“Ah,” said he, “young Mr. Proctor, is it not?”

I agreed that it was.

“Perhaps I’ve come too early for my appointment with Sir John. He asked only that I come by in the morning. I sent in word by that gentleman there” — he ducked his head in Mr. Marsden’s direction — “that I’d arrived. But I was told simply to wait. If this is an inconvenient hour, I should be happy to return later. I wonder,” said he. hesitating, “could you possibly tell him that for me?”

“I should be happy to do so,” said I, bobbing at the waist in a tight little bow, “He will admit me to deliver your message. He does sometimes prefer to sit alone and consider those matters that weigh upon him.”

“I quite understand,” said he, returning my bow most gracefully.

“If you will excuse me,” said I.

Turning, I left him where he stood and made straight for the door to Sir John’s chambers. Contrary to what I had said to Mr. Millhouse, I was quite confident that I should be invited in — and I was. Closing the door quietly behind me, I made swiftly across the room to the desk. Sir John leaned across it in a conspiratorial manner.

“He’s here now,” whispered Sir John. “Millhouse, I mean.”

“I know,” said I. “He spoke with me out in the corridor.”

“We must think of something for you to do, some work for you here whilst I put questions to him.”

“Those boxes in the comer,” said I. “They’re filled with papers. I’ll go through them and divide them in piles.”

“Perfect,” said Sir John, quiet as he could. “Call him in now.”

I opened the door and did so, then swiftly did I retreat to the biggest of the boxes, threw it open, and scattered papers about. Let Mr. Millhouse make what he will of it, said I to myself.

This subterfuge, though perhaps not absolutely necessary, was occasioned by Sir John’s desire to have an observer present during those interrogations he deemed to be of potential importance. Sir John believed that one who told lies must needs always give some indication of it. If not in his voice, then in his eyes, his manner of breathing, even in the posture he assumes on a chair. “A man might even tell the truth,” he had said, “and betray worry over his answer — even worry over the question. When I know what worries a man, I shall know better how to direct my interrogations.”

And so it was that when Mr. Millhouse entered, he found me in a comer, worrying over a great stack of papers. That comer afforded me an angle from which I might view his face as he would converse with Sir John.

“Come in, come in, sir,” said the magistrate. “Sit down, please. Perhaps you can tell me a bit more of poor Poll’s background, her visitors, and so on.”

“Perhaps I can,” said Mr. Millhouse. He looked round him then. His glance seemed to linger upon me. At last he eased down into a chair which stood directly opposite Sir John; only the desk separated them.

“Oh … I hope the presence of Jeremy will not disturb you greatly. I have given him a task of sorting through past records of the Bow Street Court. The Lord Chief Justice has demanded a survey of us, and it must be done.” “No, no, that’s quite all right.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Millhouse, your wife was quite forthcoming regarding Priscilla Tarkin’s unfortunate circumstances and sterling character, and so on, and while Tm sure what she said was quite accurate, so far as it went, it was not the sort of information likely to help our inquiry into the death of the poor woman. I was hoping that you, as a man and as Polly’s neighbor, might have been more observant of her habits, her commerce, and so on.” “Well, I’ll tell you what I can, of course.” “How long were you acquainted with her?” “The entire six months we have been here in London.” “And how was it that you became aware of her — what shall we call it? — her line of work? Surely she herself didn’t inform you immediately?”

“No, certainly not. I would say that our knowledge came only gradually.”

He seemed to grow more tense. His hands, which he had rested on his knees, no longer rested; they twitched a bit as his fingers examined the seams of his breeches. “Not long after our arrival, perhaps a month, we were wakened quite late at night by an awful row next door. The wall between her place and our own seems quite thin. In any case, there were cries and shouts, and one of the voices distinctly male. An accusation of theft was made and denied. My wife urged me to go next door to see what I could do to settle the matter, or at least calm them down. I was just pulling on my clothes when suddenly we heard the door slam and loud footsteps departing. Well, one naturally wonders at a male guest well after midnight, or perhaps one assumes the obvious; I know I did. My wife was unwilling to do so, and so next day she approached Poll in a manner most sympathetic and heard from her the story she gave you yestermorn. She had already formed an affection for the woman; her pity for her now deepened it.”

“But you said you came upon this gradually,” said Sir John. “There must have been hints earlier.”

“Well, there were. First of all, she was a widow, living alone, and had no means of support that I could tell. She slept late in the morning. And I had already spied her out on the street in the evening, loitering about in such a way as to make herself available to conversation with Strang-ers.

“I see. Now, if I may take you back to that occasion when you and your wife were wakened by the row, let me ask you this: Was the accusation of theft which you mentioned made in her voice? I know that women of the streets are often preyed upon by thieves of every sort. We are now searching for one who made a practice of robbing prostitutes of their earnings. He was seen quarreling with her earlier on the night she was murdered. Did the male voice you heard give indication of a foreign accent?”

“Oh no, nothing of the kind,” said he. “First of all, it would have been difficult to say that the man in question spoke, as you describe, with an accent that might be described as foreign. I only heard him say quite clearly, ‘You got it, ain’t you, you thieving bitch.’ Pardon the language. You see, he it was who accused her. And her response was all in denial.”

“Oh? Interesting. Did you see men entering her room in her company?”

“No, never, which seems curious, since our rooms were adjoining. On a number of occasions, however, we heard male voices.”

“In accusation?”

“Not that we could tell. There were no more rows, in any case.”

It is worth noting at this point that gradually Mr. Mill-house had relaxed during the last questions put to him by Sir John. However, during the next few he tensed as never before. His body seemed to coil. He shifted his position in his chair so restlessly that I should have thought him sitting on a cushion of thorns had I not often sat in it myself.

”You mentioned having seen her on the street before the night of the row. Did you see her afterwards upon occasion as you have described — loitering, on the lookout, as it might be?”

“Yes, on a number of occasions.”

“Was she sometimes in conversation with men?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Well, did you take note of them, sir? What did they look like? Did you see her more than once with the same man?”

“No, no, no, really. Sir John, I took no notice of them at all.” Mr. Millhouse sounded near as agitated as he appeared. “It was most embarrassing to meet her in such situations. I looked away and hurried past. I had no wish to scrutinize those she sought to tempt.”

“When you met her on the street just so,” said Sir John, “did she speak in greeting? Did she give some sign of recognition? Did she smile or perhaps nod her head?”

“No… well, yes, perhaps. I don’t know. Why do you ask such a question? Well, all right, I suppose I must answer. On a few occasions she did greet me.”

“I take it these were occasions when there was no man about.”

“Of course!”

“And how did she greet you, Mr. Millhouse? Did she seem to look upon you as a potential client?”

“No!”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because she gave an ordinary greeting as one might give a neighbor — ‘Good day, Mr. Millhouse,’ or some such.”

“And what was your response to her neighborly greeting?”

“I told you! I hurried by. Oh, I may have given her a hello in return, but I certainly did not stop to pass the time of day!”

“And why not, sir? From your description, I would say that you snubbed her. Why did you do that?”

“Because I did not wish to be seen as one of those men who passes his time idly talking to whores! I cannot make it more plain than that!”

Sir John allowed Mr. Millhouse to calm himself a bit. Indeed he did need calming. His face had reddened. For a time I thought that he kept himself seated by pure force of will. His legs twitched. He seemed to wish to leap to his feet and run from the place. But at last Sir John resumed:

“But a moment ago you asked me why I should ask you such a question. Let me tell you, I ask you such questions as these so that I may know your relation to the victim. Your wife made hers plain. Yet I have yet to understand fully your own feelings towards Priscilla Tarkin — and, for that matter, hers towards you.”